THERE WERE A great many things that came with crush culture, and Wyatt considered himself an expert at most of them.
The constant notification checks, elevated heart rates, and cute phone calls or text messages that made his palms sweaty were things he anticipated, even managed to control: three hours away from his phone for each time he succumbed to his double texting tendencies, a quick emotional retreat for each time he barely fought an urge to tell a boy and their beautiful smile that he wanted them, needed them. That he loved them.
He’d made these checks after his first few relationship-fails, and even though he believed that tall boys with messy hair and cute laughs were put on earth to torture him, his impulse to fight against any of his basest desires was almost involuntarily at that point. Or at least he'd thought so.
Now his insta love-proof mechanisms were broken, because in the span of one meeting Wesley had become the only thing he thought about. His hands reached for his phone as soon as he woke up in anticipation, sometimes in class he would reach for it subconsciously, and shoot off a single text of a single, rarely used emoji, fingers itching for a comfort they wouldn’t receive.
This was what falling in love felt like, he thought, but nobody told you of how truly inconvenient it was.
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They met at a diner not too far from the restaurant he worked at on one of his breaks, and Wyatt was at once struck by the smell of the other boy. There was sandalwood, detergent, and the underlying smell of cigarette smoke; a not unpleasant combination, even if Wyatt found the act of smoking in itself disgusting.
Wesley wore a worn gray tee, faded blue jeans, and the same pair of beat up sneakers he’d had on at the gallery, and even though the dark circles under his eyes hinted at a lack of sleep, the alertness of his posture and shining brightness of his eyes was more than enough reassurance.
Wyatt wanted to reach over and run a palm over his buzzed scalp, down his face, where he would trace the beautiful calligraphy of his tattoo with his fingers, but he settled instead for calling on the middle-aged brunette in a waitress uniform, whose name tag read Betty.
“Can I have a salad and an iced tea, please?”
A stenciled brow rose as she looked at him incredulously.
“A salad and iced tea,” she mimicked, though not unkindly. “You think this is the Hamptons, pretty boy? ‘Cause I want one of those too.”
“Just a burger, fries and sodas for the both of us,” Wesley cut in, and after a moment’s hesitation he added, “Please.”
“Alright then,” she murmured glancing between both boys before scribbling into her notepad as she walked away.
“Sorry,” Wesley said, “that’s just how things are here.”
Wyatt nodded, though slightly overwhelmed by his sudden shift in behaviour.
“It’s alright,” he murmured, eyes inspecting the monochrome wallpaper and pictures framed on the wall, before landing on the ancient juke box at a corner.
“So,” the other boy began when the silence between them took over an awkward quality. “How’s school?”
“Fine, school’s alright.” A pause, then:
“What about you, school, work, your parents?”
Wesley’s body language suddenly turned prickly as his shoulders tensed, eyes narrowing to slits―and Wyatt got the impression that he was trapped with a tiger. He wanted to run from, and towards him.
“Work and school are alright. I live with a foster parent.”
He opened his mouth to apologize, but Wesley waved him off.
“It’s alright, you didn’t know. Can we drop it?”
“Yeah, sure,” he murmured, nodding as he wondered how he could text a guy nonstop for three weeks and yet not know he lived in foster care, though in retrospect it all made sense; the evasions and quick subject changes whenever family came up, which Wyatt had always attributed to his feigned aura of mystery. It wouldn’t be the first time he met a wannabe Edward Cullen, but as he would soon learn, Wesley Chao never tried to be anyone but himself.
Betty returned with their orders in two separate plates, and Wyatt watched the other boy begin to wolf down his meal, even as he stared at the overly greased yellow fries and dubiously stuffed burgers.
He prayed that sitting this close to them wouldn’t cause an acne outbreak and popped open his can of Coke, taking a quick gulp even as his mind screamed at him the many demerits of soda.
They made small talk as Wesley cleared his plate and Wyatt played with around with the fries on his own, so that at the end, one plate looked licked clean and the other remained untouched.
He watched Wesley’s eyes stray from his plate to him and felt suddenly self-conscious, wanting to explain that he rarely, if ever, consumed fried or processed foods―but stopped at the last moment when it dawned on him, how selfish and snobbish he'd sound.
Gulping, he reached for a fry and popped it into his mouth, which suddenly exploded at the taste of a deep-fried potato. Unable to help himself, he reached for two more, tearing at a piece of lettuce that stuck out from the side of his burger too before pushing the plate away. He wouldn’t succumb.
“I ate before coming over,” he lied breezily, adding, “You can have mine.”
Wesley’s eyes studied him closely.
“You’re lying.”
He shrugged lazily, expression blasé. “Or I could leave it here, have them throw it away.”
Even before the words were fully formed Wesley dragged the plate towards his direction, dubiously shaking his head.
“That’s blackmail,” he said, smiling unguardedly for what felt like the first time in their little situationship. “You’re evil.”
As for Wyatt, he thought two things: the first being that Wesley had one of those faces that did a three-sixty from plain to simply gorgeous when smiling, and the second that it must have been magic, because in that moment, watching it break over his face like the sun through clouds on a very rainy day, he could’ve sworn that he felt his world go still.
YOU ARE READING
Still Point ✓
Short Story'I want you to want me,' the text read, and he smiled as he shot off his reply. 'You have no idea how much I already do.' Wesley Chao doesn't believe in love and Wyatt Carter wishes he wasn't always in it, until they both meet at an art exhibiti...
